A fish knows when it is out of water; if it knows its natural habitat is water, I have no idea. A pig knows that being clean is an oddity and will wallow in the mud at first chance. Fire ants attack absolutely anything that touches their mound, that which is not part of their colony, even other ants. These are the natural inclinations of creatures that are self-aware. They know, by instinct, what they are and where they belong. But not all creatures possess such agency.
The hordes of recent refugees to Dixie are clueless as to their lack of suitably to our environment. Their non-Southern ways are quite conspicuous, and we are to blame. It is our upbringing, for we are a most hospitable people, and that hospitality postpones the natural assimilation of the foreigner.
Clearly, when I write “foreigner,” I’m not only talking about those who have immigrated from South and Central America, Asia, or even Africa. No sir! Most assuredly included in that rabble are Yankees, Mid-Westerners, and Californians. I’m sure some are very nice people, and in a few generations their offspring will speak with a twang and a drawl just as we do. That is, if we preserve our speech and make it ubiquitous again.
Brothers and sisters, have you ever noticed an evening in your accent? Has it become less Southern? Have you noticed a hurried pace in your speech? Does your drawl dissipate when you are engaged with the foreigner for long periods of time? This is not uncommon. Southerners were taught for decades to rid themselves of their accents if they wished to climb the corporate ladder or advance in academia.
A good friend recently confessed to a large group, that his deep Southern Mississippi accent becomes more pronounced when he is home among his kinfolk. Conversely, he unconsciously admitted that he alters his speech when he is among the refugees. It’s a natural accommodating adjustment. Even my daughter notices that my Low Country South Carolina accent is more pronounced when I read, as to when I just speak. I suppose our hurried lifestyle disposes us to flatten our pitches in the rush to be understood by the newcomers. But this is the opposite of the approach we must take.
We must distinguish ourselves from the foreigner again. Slow your speech, listen to your cantor. Take the time to hear the Southern in your voice again. Let it be obvious that you are from Dixie, and that this is the tongue of your home, and it is the only acceptable language in the South.
The foreigner must not be comfortable in their lack of assimilation. We are not Great Value Walmart Americans, made and marketed generically to appeal to the broadest demographic. We are Dixians, made of the finest ingredients, slowly aged to produce the very best quality and consistency.
I leave you with a poem from Kipling, which speaks to my point.
The Stranger
The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk—
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
They are used to the lies I tell.
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.
The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control—
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.
This was my father’s belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf—
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.
Deo Vindice!
God save the South!
Service to God and honor to the South.
